A/N: I had a very hard time finding a Navajo-English dictionary on line.

The Navajo translations are listed at the end of this chapter. I apologize to our Native American brothers and sisters if I mangled their language and have inadvertently offended them in any way. Doing the research is what took me so long in posting these chapters, but I think it's worth it.

This is Dean and Coyote's chapter. It's a little long, but I think you'll like it. Please review and let me know what you think.

Dog Eat Dog

Chapter 14 Bleed-Through

One

They hit him twice with the needle even as he came sliding back into his body, once in the arm and once in his chest, near his shoulder. The air shimmered in his ears, and his heartbeat slowed down. His breath rasped in and out of his lungs and it echoed in his ears like thunder. He could hear the commotion in the halls, the screaming of the other patients, smell the urine and shit in the air as some of the more sensitive ones lost control of their bladders. The patient in the room directly down the hall screamed as he thumped his head against the wall. "There's a beast in the halls! Didn't you see it? A beast in the hallway!"

The world was on one vibration; Dean was on another. He floated somewhere in between…the tether of his life to his body was stretched thin enough as it was. It was frayed, about to unravel, one strand at a time. All the energy flowed out of him, and he had no way of knowing what was going to happen next.

It was Coyote's turn, and Dean waited for him to take his best shot. One of Coyote's nicknames was the Magician, and Dean had no doubt that meant he was screwed, fucked up beyond all recognition, that the old boy would pull something else out of that bag of tricks of his, sever Dean's lifeline, and waltz away with full control of Dean's body, just as neat as you please.

Dean fought anyway. Struggled to take one more breath, willed his heart to pump one more time. One more time, and he got past that, then willed it to happen again, the next time, and the next. Determination and will against the chemical shit they'd pumped into his body. They'd given him too much. They were panicked, scared of him – the acrid taste and smell of their fear flooded his nose and mouth – someone twisted their fingers in his hair, pulled his head back and jabbed the needle in roughly, twice.

Hendricksen could take him back to Washington in a body bag just as easily. Dean knew that.

Stubborn bastard. It sounded like his voice. Or Coyote's voice. He couldn't tell which, and didn't care. He could barely keep his eyes open.

The bark of the tree trunk felt rough against the back of his head, and he had a bad moment when his sight blurred and he thought he was back at the house in Lawrence. Thought he was back in the front yard, with the Dad thing leaning over him, taking him by the shoulder, lifting him up, taking him back into the house.

Not this time. He felt a hand give his shoulder a brief, strong squeeze, and he could barely hear his own voice in a rough whisper…lnáháláá.

I gathered them.

Gathered--gathered who?

The tree sat at the top of a hill in the middle of sand, rocks, and scrubs. It was huge, ancient, and its branches were full and thick, and it swayed gently and slowly in the warm sunlit breeze. The hill had a gentle enough slope downward, and Dean's vision slowly cleared, like fog lifting in retreat from sunrise. He glanced down at his body, and he was dressed in his brown leather jacket, black t shirt, worn blue jeans. It took an effort for him to lift his head back up.

There were people all around him.

Mary Winchester. Alive and well and smiling as she tucked his four year old self in for the night.

Mom. I saw you burn. I saw you burn that night, and I couldn't stop it…

Cassie.

"I'm a realist, Dean." She shook her head slightly. She looked sad, resigned. " I don't see much hope for us."

"Stranger things have happened. I've seen it. I believe that, Cassie…"

He hadn't seen her again in a year. He wanted to, but he didn't dare. Death followed him around, now more than ever. He had enough blood on his hands. Not hers. Never hers.

He saw Hailey and her brothers, Ben and Tommy, up in Black Water Ridge, Colorado.

"I don't even know how I could thank you."

Dean leaned back against the Impala and leered at her.

She smiled in spite of herself. "Must you cheapen the moment?"

"Yeah!"

Hailey wondered about the look on his face as she kissed him on the cheek. He seemed…startled. Surprised that she responded to him, and not that cocky, smart ass mask he wore all the time. She saw the real Dean Winchester, and if she didn't know any better, the fact that she saw it made him uncomfortable.

"I hope you find your father," she whispered, and she turned back towards the ambulance. Towards her life with her brothers Tommy, and Ben.

Layla O'Rourke.

"I'm not the praying kind, but I'll pray for you…"

"Well," she smiled sadly as she kissed him on the cheek. "That's a miracle right there…"

Lucas, with his mother…

"Now if you're gonna be talking now, you gotta say this often, and say it right."

Dean and Lucas said it together. "Zeppelin rules!"

"That's my man, High five…" and they slapped palms lightly.

"You saved my son." Andrea said with a sad smile. "That's more than I could have asked for."

Michael and Asher, the kids he and Sam saved from that shtriga in Fitchburg, Wisconsin last year.

"You said you're a big brother?" Michael asked.

"Yeah," Dean said simply.

"You take care of your little brother?" Michael's eyes searched Dean's face for reassurance. "You'd do anything for him?"

"Yeah, I would." Dean turned slowly, looked back at Sam.

"Me too. I'll help."

Ellen and Ash, at the roadhouse. Jo, on the road, hunting alone.

They couldn't see him. They didn't even seem to be aware of each other. Each one had their own space, and somehow he knew they were thinking about him. It didn't hurt like it did before. The thoughts and images didn't crowd in on him, slicing at his brain and flesh, making his brain bleed and his heart gallop painfully in his chest like it had. It was slow and calm and easy. It felt right, like he was meant to do it all his life.

He searched the crowd of faces for his Dad. He didn't see him. If he was dying, and this was a flashback before everything went dark, John Winchester sure as hell should have been there somewhere. He wasn't. Neither was Bobby Singer, and Dean felt a pit form, heavy and sour, in his stomach. He spotted the one person out there who stared right at him and his heart clenched in his chest.

Sam.

Sam stood a little apart from the others, both hands jammed into his jacket pockets. He looked up at Dean, warmly, with a little grin on his face, and the grin and the warmth reached Sam's eyes, like he didn't even mind that Dean hadn't gotten him out of that godforsaken place, didn't even mind that Dean had failed him, left him with that yellow eyed son-of-a-bitch.

Sam. Oh, God, Sammy…

Dean arched his back against the tree, tried to push off, get to his feet, but he couldn't, and some unseen hand gently, firmly, pushed him right back down.

Be still.

"Is this…some half-assed mystical trick of yours?" Dean said out loud hoarsely. It took everything he had not to slur the words.

No. It's your half-assed mystical trick.

"One last look at everything before you get rid of me, huh?"

You wouldn't believe me if I said no. Believe this or don't, I don't give a fuck which. Maybe I'm not the asshole you think I am…

He saw people he hadn't seen for years, from all the cities and small towns he and John and Sam had ever passed thru. He saw the teachers he'd liked in school (and there were some, even though he acted blasé about it and wouldn't dare admit it to anyone). The people he'd saved on hunts were there: women, children, and men. They sat around the tree in a concentric circle that stretched towards the horizon, and in his mind's eye he could see all the way around the tree, even in back.

The people further out in the circle looked like people Dean had seen only in textbooks, and he had paid attention in school…sometimes…it wasn't always Schoolhouse Rock, Sammy. He saw Anasazi. Crow. Nez Perce, Flathead, and Navajo people, among others.

Red, black, white and brown people dressed in clothes from the last century, and before that, dressed in rough, dusty clothing.

He heard the thoughts and knew the stories of everyone out there, and they all had to do with Coyote. With…him. Some of the stories were funny, some were sexual. Some were downright tragic. Coyote tricked people, after all, and sometimes people died as a result of it. If you attracted Coyote's' attention for one reason or another, that was not a good thing, in most cases.

Some of them saw the error of their ways, and survived, lived to tell about it. Some, like that rancher with the gold nugget rock up on the mountain in that blizzard, doomed themselves the moment they stubbornly refused to change.

Coyote didn't feel any remorse about that.

Dean was surprised that a lot of the stories about Coyote had to do with hunting and killing things. Things that had targeted Coyote for some reason. Fuglies like that damned Thunderbird that Coyote had gone after, because it killed people. Coyote stole fire from immortals so Mankind could survive the harsh winter. He was disrespectful of other entities, especially the high and mighty ones. He got downright rude with them.

Deja fucking vu.

Most classes in school bored the hell out of Dean, even History, whether it was World or American, and while he didn't want to admit it, he'd always had a nagging sense of disquiet and déjà vu as he flipped thru those textbooks. Like he already knew the true stories, no matter what they wrote down in those books.

After Sam left to go to Stanford John concentrated on hunting in California, New Mexico and Arizona. Dean hadn't said a word, but he knew what was going on, knew why there'd been times when John would disappear, sometimes for a week or ten days at a time.

To check on Sam.

Hell, Dean had done it himself, more than once, after John got his truck and gave Dean the Impala. He didn't even have to do the math to figure out how long it would take to shag ass to Palo Alto and back on a full tank of gas. The thing is, he felt at home in those states, like he'd been there before.

But…he hadn't. He knew he hadn't.

At least, not in this life.

Once he and his Dad had stopped at a roadside diner right off the interstate outside of Albuquerque. A Navajo family sat in the booth right behind Dean, the mother and father, two young kids and both grandparents. While John went to the men's room Dean sat there and half-listened to their conversation as he looked at the laminated menu.

…let's see…Something tickled at the back of his skull. Hamburger…nahh, I'm getting kinda sick of that already…

"…ahbínígo tłóógóó chínáshdááh…"

…. I always go outdoors in the morning….

…hmmph… fried chicken…maybe fish, Dean thought.

"…nahółtą́ą́lágo…"

…I hope it doesn't rain…

He sat there for another minute or so before he heard the mother ask for ashįįh and without thinking, his eyes still scanning down the menu, Dean picked up the salt shaker on his table, turned around halfway and passed it over to her.

"Aahéhee'."

Thank you.

Dean nodded, and he thought the words You're welcome in English, but You're welcome in Navajo was what came out of his mouth.

He turned back around and stared at the menu.

Then he froze and his eyes widened.

Son of a bitch…what the hell was that?

The whole thing gave him a weird, spaced out feeling. His leather jacket creaked a little as he hunched down in his seat and he stared at the English words on the menu like they were a fucking lifeline.

A few seconds later they handed the salt shaker back, and he mumbled No problem in English. He put it down quick, as if the slick glass surface burned his hand. He must've still looked weirded out though, because when John came back and slid into the opposite side of the booth he took one look, quirked an eyebrow at his eldest son and rumbled, "Dean. Something wrong?"

Fuck, the old man didn't miss anything. Dean damn near jumped out of his skin.

"Huh? Oh, no. No. Nothin'."

John gave him that look. He'd been getting that look a lot lately from his Dad.

Dean spent the rest of the day making sure his expression didn't reach his eyes.

Occasionally he saw people on the streets who seemed awfully damned familiar, and he knew he'd never laid eyes on them before. A part of him recognized the vibration they gave off. It was otherworldly; it was Other. They would look at him and stop and stare and Dean would stare right back.

He chalked it up to nerves, but deep down inside he knew it wasn't. He just didn't know what the hell it was, and the feeling confused and angered him. He'd felt it before, on hunts, but he wasn't hunting at that particular moment. What was he supposed to do, walk up to them, pull out his Desert Eagle, and start shooting? He ignored the hell out of that tightness in his gut that he felt every damn time.

When his Dad decided to head back to the Midwest a few days later Dean felt a sense of relief, though relief about what he really didn't even know.

He knew now.

He had to be practically hit over the head with an impressive looking special effect that would've done Industrial Light and Magic proud, but he finally got it. He really did. All around him was his life. Coyote's life. Threads of the same crazy quilt pattern all mixed together, and yeah, it was fucked up, and a lot of the threads were broken and it didn't make sense at all, but it was his fucked up life and no one else's but Coyote's….

He felt himself settle, and he felt stronger, and that was when Dean realized that none of this was working. That constant seesaw of power, back and forth, it wasn't working. Hadn't gotten him any closer to getting Sam out safely, and would probably end up getting all of them killed. Trying to take over from Coyote hadn't worked. They pulled back and forth at each other, wasting time, time that Dean knew they didn't have…

Out of the corner of his eyes he saw Coyote sitting a few feet away. Dude wasn't looking so good…he was pale, with dark bruises underneath his eyes. His breathing was light, shallow. He wore a dark grey hoodie and blue jeans, and he looked sick, just like Dean had when he'd gotten out of the hospital, before Sam dragged him off to meet Roy LaGrange to heal his heart.

Dean looked down at his own hands, and they looked fine. Strong. Healthy. He spread his fingers, and his hands didn't shake. The power was swinging back in Dean's direction, then, and by the wary look on Coyote's face he fully expected Dean to kick his ass or something. Coyote leaned the side of his head against the tree and waited.

More proof that this back and forth shit wasn't working. Something had to give.

Had to be given.

All he had to offer was himself.

Dude. Seriously. A hoodie? Dean thought the words at him, quirked an eyebrow.

Coyote squinted darkly at him. He was on the downward slide, obviously tired and very pissed off, but he wasn't about to kiss Dean's ass.

So what? I like it.

You and Sam have more in common than you think. You're both dorks.

Bite me.

You have to help me…Dean thought the words, frowned, and shook his head. He was gonna fuck this up, he knew it. Coyote got this stubborn look on his face, his eyes went hooded and tight, and damn, did he always look that…fierce…whenever he got pissed off? It was like looking into a fucking mirror.

Dean tried it again. Help me keep Sam safe from that yellow eyed bastard. Help me keep him safe thru this, and…and the war that's coming…and afterwards, when it's all over and Sam's safe… you…you can have this body. You can take it. I won't fight you. You can wall me up forever and I'll stay there.

Coyote blinked in surprise. His face went totally blank for a moment. What?

You heard me. I'm not going to repeat it. And you have to promise me you won't harm Sam, not now, not ever.

A low, rough chuckle, so much like his own. A trick. Is that what this is?

They shared the same headspace but they circled around each other, wary of traps and tricks, of each other.

I'm giving you my word on this, Dean growled. It ain't much, but it's all I've got.

You can't wall me up again. Not now, not ever.

I'm not agreeing to anything until I hear what I need to hear from you.

Deal. I'll help you keep Sam safe, help you protect him, now and later. I won't hurt Sam. Ever.

All right. No more walls.

A soft grey fog rolled in from the horizon, flowed up the hill, towards the tree. The people, the images and thoughts were background noise now, and soon even that would be gone. Dean felt the pain in his arm and shoulder where they'd injected him, and he fell heavily back against the tree trunk. He couldn't even turn his head to see where Coyote had got to.

Dean heard words in his head, words he'd even forgotten he knew, and he felt his lips move as he repeated them. The last person he saw before the fog swept in over him was Sam, still standing there, looking at him, all calm and smiling and peaceful, secure in the knowledge that his big brother was coming, that he would make everything right.

God, Sammy, I hope I didn't just fuck up big time...

The last words Dean thought in English floated across his fading consciousness like pale moonlight shimmering on a bottomless pond at night. Famous last words…

Like father, like son…

Two

"He's…he's in here." Lockridge stopped, fidgeted. He shifted from one foot to another. Hendricksen and Dufresne exchanged looks. Agents Faulk and Baker from the nearby, larger Mossman, Kansas Bureau office waited behind Dufresne. Hendricksen made an exaggerated gesture, swept his arm out. "After you."

Lockridge looked like he'd rather be anywhere but here. He didn't move until Hendricksen glared at him.

The good doctor had been acting really squirrelly from the moment they'd arrived. He refused to look them in the eyes and he jumped when Hendricksen and Dufresne flashed their tin on him. They'd met hospital administrators before, and the way they ran their facilities really depended on what kind of person they were inside.

The decent ones ran their facilities as fairly as they could under the circumstances. The power mad sumbitches acted accordingly, and then there were the ones who swung somewhere in between. Personally, Lockridge struck both agents as the power mad sumbitch type, the type that would look at them with his nose slightly wrinkled up like he was smelling a gas leak. The type that would try to play games, pissed off because they were here to pick up a patient that the good doctor could publish medical papers about for years.

This one had lost that high seddity look. Something had put the fear of God into him, and whatever it was had to do with Dean Winchester.

They'd both noticed that even at twelve thirty in the morning Norwood was roaring like it was twelve thirty in the afternoon. The patients were in an uproar, screaming, sobbing, bumping their heads against the walls, pulling at the doors trying to get out. On the way in Dufresne caught a glimpse of someone out of the corner of her eye. Pale skin, large grey eyes, dressed in blue. Female. Dufresne swore she could see straight through her. When Dufresne turned around to stare directly at her, whoever it was, whatever it was, had vanished.

It was an optical illusion, a trick of the light, and hell no, she wasn't about to mention this to Hendricksen. Dufresne didn't know what she expected when she stepped into Norwood's lobby, but it sure in the hell wasn't this.

The two deputies from Norwood PD were already inside the room, along with two of the white shirted hospital orderlies. The orderlies leaned against a large table that was pushed up against the wall. They were both big men, and Dufresne could tell by the set of their faces that they weren't too thrilled about being there. The other thing she noticed was they were both beat halfway to hell.

Petrie's head was bandaged up, and with all the bruises and the stiff way he held himself he obviously came out on the losing side. Sniegoski held himself in a stiff, protective manner. Each man was taller, heavier, twice as large as Dean Winchester.

They glared at the agents as they walked in, and she'd seen that kind of look before, on the looks of the perps and unsubs that they'd brought in: a somewhat glassy eyed stare, disbelieving. These were men who were used to having their own way, and they didn't take too kindly to being frustrated. Their fists were huge and Dufresne was pretty sure that they would have no problem using them on a patient, disruptive or otherwise.

The white floor tiles were chipped and cracked. A doorknob was embedded halfway in the far wall. Pieces of black plastic, metal and glass were everywhere on the floor. There was a large crater in the wall more than halfway up the wall, and Dufresne recognized it as the kind of crater made by a body, picked up and thrown into the wall with great force. There were cracks in the wall, cracks in the ceiling. A lot of the white ceiling tiles had been pulled up, cracked around the edges.

Dufresne glanced sideways at Hendricksen. He wasn't given to flights of fancy; he was one of the most level headed, realistic men she ever knew. But this….the damage seemed to radiate outward, in a circle, from the center of the room, and the only thing at the center of the room was an exam chair, and the person strapped down in the exam chair was Dean Winchester.

Damn, even bruised up and in restraints the boy was gorgeous, Dufresne thought. It was a damn shame; those mug shots didn't do him justice. His mouth was bruised and swollen, and there was some bruising on the left side of his face, near his eye. He was dressed in a black hoodie, faded blue jeans, and tennis shoes. Apparently they had sedated him and then dressed him for the trip, and they'd been none too gentle about it. His head was down, and his eyes were distant, glazed over. He kept pulling, twisting at the straps with his wrists.

Dufresne turned and glanced at Petrie, and in her minds' eye she could see Petrie as he punched Winchester in the face, hear Petrie as he snarled at the drugged man, "Here's one for the road, freak."

Petrie shrugged. He held his right arm close to his side. "He gave us trouble, we gave him the needle. We kept his ass here for you. What more do you want?"

Hendricksen sneered a little. In Milwaukee Sam and Dean Winchester had disarmed two highly trained SWAT team members, took their guns and uniforms, stripped them down to their underwear and left them tied up in a supply closet. These two yahoos must have gotten really lucky and tagged Winchester with the needle, dropped him before he could really go medieval on them. Hendricksen wasn't surprised. John Winchester trained his boys well. They were clever, dangerous, and highly trained, the both of them.

Sniegoski wouldn't meet his eyes.

Lockridge wouldn't look at Winchester, and he wouldn't go near the chair.

Dean didn't seem to notice anyone else in the room. His lips moved as he whispered to himself. He didn't react when Dufresne leaned in close to him and listened.

"yishtééł…. halgai… yishááh…"

"What?" Hendricksen raised one eyebrow.

She shrugged. "Sounds like he's chanting."

One of the deputies cleared his throat. He was tall, older than Dufresne, with a broad sunburned face and a white crew cut. He smiled a little when she looked over at him. "Ah, ma'm, I spent some time in the desert Southwest. New Mexico. He's speaking Navajo."

"…deeshááł…"

"Navajo?" Dufresne frowned. "Do you know what he's saying?"

The deputy shrugged. "He's saying he's in a white room. And he's going somewhere."

"Probably some fucked up stuff his dad taught him." Hendricksen shrugged. "Backwoods voodoo, or hoodoo. Whatever. That John Winchester was one weird son of a bitch. You can see crazy didn't fall too far from the tree."

"I told you not to talk about my Dad like that." Dean said slowly, with an edge in his voice. He raised his head and looked Hendricksen right in the eyes.

Hendricksen smiled, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "That's my boy. Welcome back. So how've you been, Dean?"

Dean blinked in the extremely slow way of the heavily medicated. The green of his irises was a thin ring of color around oversized black pupils. He continued to pull at the restraints. "Agent Scully," Dean mumbled to Hendricksen. He turned his head slowly and looked at Dufresne. "Agent Mulder."

Hendricksen chuckled, shook his head. The kid was drugged up and restrained, sitting in a hostile room -- hell, some of the people there had obviously tried to kick his ass big time -- and he was still being a smartass.

"What happened, Dean? Where's Sam?" Hendricksen walked around the chair. Glass and black plastic crunched underneath his shoes. "Did you finally snap and murder your own brother? Are we going to find Sam's body in a dumpster or a landfill somewhere, huh?" He leaned forward, his lips at Dean's ear. "Or maybe he ditched you. Got tired of your crazy ass and decided to go off on his own. Come on, you can tell me. Inquiring minds wanna know."

Another slow blink, an equally slo-mo nod of the head. Dean looked down at his wrists and frowned. He seemed puzzled the restraints were still there.

"What, no more smartass remarks? None of that trademark witty banter of yours?"

Dean ignored him. He was off on some distant planet somewhere.

"Now you've gone and hurt my feelings. Oh well. You've been remanded into our custody, and we're going on a little trip back to Washington DC. Taxpayer's expense, and all that. You'll have center stage. Once we get there you can continue to play crazy, or you can tell us what's really going on with you and Sam. I personally don't care which. If we caught your crazy ass, it's only a matter of time before we get Sam."

Hendricksen straightened up. "Doctor Lockridge?"

"Y-Yes?"

"Is the patient ready to go?"

"Yes. The drug combination we gave him should wear off by the time you get him back to Washington."

"Did you conduct an interview with him when he first came into your facility?"

"Yes, but---"

"Then, Doctor, you know the drill. We need your notes from all interviews you've conducted with Winchester. We also need any and all video recordings of said interviews."

"I don't---"

Hendricksen shook his head. "Doc, this isn't my first time at the rodeo, all right? We both know you were planning on writing several papers on Dean Winchester. A freak like this could keep you in business for years to come. Now either you hand over all your material now, or you can plan on spending some quality time with Norwood PD. Obstruction of justice has a very nice ring to it."

It took Lockridge twelve minutes to come up with everything he had.

"All right, Dean," Hendricksen was at Dean's side again. 'This is the way this is gonna go." Dean stared at him dully. "We're going to unstrap you now, cuff you up, put you in a wheelchair and take you out to the car. Now, if you make any sudden moves, if you even twitch, I won't hesitate to bust a cap in your ass. Consider that a warning shot. After that, it's all up to you."

"I'llbeagoodboy," Dean slurred thickly. "…good…boy…"

"We'll see."

The weirdest part about the whole thing was Petrie and Sneigoski's reaction when it was time to unstrap those restraints. "My arm's busted," Petrie muttered. "Can't do it." Sniegoski just stared and didn't move. Somehow Dufresne wasn't that surprised when she turned around and Lockridge was nowhere to be found.

None of the other Norwood orderlies would even come into the room.

Faulk and Baker handed their weapons off to Dufresne and Hendricksen, then unstrapped Winchester and put the cuffs on him.

Five minutes after that Dean Winchester was strapped into the back seat of the first black FBI SUV and Hendricksen slid behind the wheel. Dufresne rode shotgun. Deputies from Norwood took point, and the SUV with Dean, Hendricksen and Dufresne was in the middle, with FBI Agents Faulk and Baker taking up the rear in a black sedan.

Twenty miles out from Norwood, shit happened.

It didn't have anything to do with the supernatural. Not at all.

Shit happens.

It happens all the time.

Eight hours earlier a factory worker by the name of Jerry Englewood was having a really crappy day. His wife had put a restraining order on him, months ago, which was no biggie since Jerry decided to shack up with his long-time girlfriend, Claire. Well, until this morning he had. When Claire found out that Jerry had lost his job at the plant a week ago, she kicked him out of her house, quick fast and in a hurry. Jerry found himself with all his worldly possessions in his suitcase and his heavy duty Ranger truck. He had enough money to go bar hopping, and he went about getting drunk with a total vengeance.

Now, at approximately one o'clock in the morning, Jerry was barreling down the highway twenty miles out from Norwood. He weaved back and forth over the white and yellow lines, and it wasn't long before he approached the cop cruiser and the two FBI vehicles headed in the opposite direction.

Hendricksen had a brief flash of headlights coming over the yellow line right at them, and he twisted the steering wheel to the right, stomped on the gas pedal. He refused to give up control, right up to the bitter end. As a result the Ranger pick-up plowed into the SUV at an angle instead of head on, slamming into the rear passenger side door, right behind Hendricksen. Dean Winchester was strapped in directly between the two agents.

Hendricksen glanced up into the rear view mirror seconds before impact. Dean's head jerked up, and his eyes were backlit, his pupils glowed like an animal staring into a fire. Reflection of the headlights, Hendricksen thought, and then everything went blank in a blinding yellow flash….

Navajo Translations

deeshááł - I'll go.

yishtééł – I'm carrying it along.

halgai – the area/this place is white.

yishááh – I'm coming.

lnáháláá - I gathered them.

ahbínígo tłóógóó chínáshdááh - I always go outdoors in the morning.

nahółtą́ą́lágo - I hope it doesn't rain.

ashįįh – salt.

aahéhee' - thank you.

Next up: When You're Going Through Hell…